


Foster-Child of Silence

by DostoevskyBrosK



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Don't copy to another site, Early Batman Bruce Wayne, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Good Parent Alfred Pennyworth, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Batman Bruce Wayne, Protective Alfred Pennyworth, Young Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28410996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DostoevskyBrosK/pseuds/DostoevskyBrosK
Summary: A look at four different times Alfred cares for Bruce. What would the caped crusader be without the man who has been his father in the most important ways?
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 20
Kudos: 32





	1. Knight-At-Arms

**Author's Note:**

> I love the relationship between Bruce and Alfred, and I always want to see more of it. So, I thought I would write some myself. This is my first Batman fic, but I have several more I am working on. I have always loved Bruce Wayne, so I am excited about that. I also have a deep, life-long love affair with poetry, which I think Alfred would too (why not?). I am going to use Keats in this story. The title comes from “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” which I will have at the end of chapter four. I will be posting a chapter every Tuesday (the story is all written – I am just working on revising it).  
> Note: This story is written by me (although obviously inspired by another's work). I do not want this posted anywhere else.   
> © All rights reserved.  
> No part of this publication (unless for personal use) may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, stored in a database and / or published in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Bruce closed his eyes, picturing the dragon in his mind. _It would be obsidian,_ He had just learned this word from his books on gemstones and was eager to use it _glinting red if the light caught it just right._ He clutched his stick carefully, brandishing it. _My sword is of the finest metal, forged by the elves after I rescued them from that other beast that other day._ He shook his head, not wanting to get too bogged down in details. _Thorns are scrapping against my skin and the overgrowth makes it seem like nothing else lives here._ When he opened his eyes, he was no longer playing in the back garden of Wayne Manor. Instead, he saw an intricate maze, leading to the dragon’s lair.

“You must be stopped, foul beast.”

He charged ahead, jumping over boulders and across a lake of fire. His bravery would be recorded for all history. The dragon loomed in front of him, fierce and terrifying. But he wasn’t afraid. He charged ahead, panting furiously. He was going to win this fight he realized with relish as he found the one weakness in the dragon. However, just as he was going to plunge his sword in, he tripped over something and tumbled to the ground.

He yelped in pain as he ripped through his clothes and scraped the skin of his knee. Blood started to well up and then began running down his leg, seeping into his pants. Bruce held his leg and chewed on his lip, trying to fight the tears that threatened to spill over.

 _What am I going to do? Mom told me not to play outside if I was going to be rough again. I ruined my pants yesterday. She is going to be so angry with me._ Bruce unconsciously started shaking. He could easily picture the disappointment that would settle in her eyes. The way she wouldn’t yell at him, but that he would feel terrible. He hated disappointing either of his parents, but especially his mom. “What am I going to do?”

Suddenly he became aware of someone walking down the path. They would probably see him soon, which he wanted to avoid. He tried to shuffle himself away, but the pain in his knee stopped him. Soon enough, Alfred appeared, which had Bruce sighing in relief. He really liked Alfred, and he wouldn’t be disappointed with him.

“Ah, Master Bruce. We were wondering where you disappeared.” Alfred seemed to notice his scraped knee and ruined pants. He responded simply, which Bruce adored. “Did you fall, Master Bruce?”

He looked up at and nodded, “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to kill that dragon over there.” Bruce gestured near the grotto.

Alfred looked over and smiled back at Bruce. “A very brave thing you were doing, but you do want to be careful. Come on inside with me. I will patch you, and your clothes, up.”

“You can do that? Will anyone be able to tell?”

“Only if we want them to know. Come on.” Alfred scooped up Bruce, who was still rather light. Bruce cuddled up against Alfred. He loved being held but felt that he was a little too old to enjoy it. However, thinking that didn’t stop him from missing it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Alfred felt the child shift closer in his arms and he smiled down at him. He had started working here about six months ago and wasn’t sure how he would like living and working in the United States. The job was fine, and he did really like his two employers. But, the thing that made him certain he would stay was the little boy he was currently carrying. Bruce was a funny child, different in many ways from the other kids his age. He was serious, but still enjoyed playing. He was also deeply curious and loved to sit on the counter of the kitchen with a book, asking Alfred all sorts of questions from what he was reading. Alfred knew he was never going to have a child, so he relished the strange, delightful boy that he ended up spending a lot of time with.

They finally reached the back of the kitchen, and Alfred gently deposited Bruce into a tall chair. He went and grabbed the first aid kit he kept in the room, plus a spare pair of pants for Bruce to change into.

“Now, Master Bruce, this is going to sting because I need to clean out the cut. Would you like me to tell you a strange story of an enchanting woman and a foolish knight?”

“A knight?” Bruce’s eyes gleamed. “Yes please, Alfred.”

Alfred smiled at him as he worked. “Let’s see if I can get the words right.”

“Do they matter so much?”

“Well, this is from what we call a poem. I am sure you have heard of them before. But the words matter very much because they are creating a sort of web of beauty that they catch us in. If we mix up their words, we mess up the web.”

“Like tearing down a spider web? Mom says I shouldn’t do that because they work so hard to build them.”

“Ah, exactly like that.”

“I won’t interrupt!” Bruce promised faithfully.

Alfred looked at him with surprise but saw his serious determination and laughed a little.

“O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.” He began to recite.

To his joy, Bruce seemed enchanted with the poem. He didn’t interrupt once, and only sucked his breath in when his wound was cleaned out. Alfred wasn’t so sure he would like that poem, but it was the one that first came to mind for Bruce. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bruce asked for the poem again the next morning while he was eating his breakfast. He knew he wanted to play it today. No dragon, just a lovesick knight. It would make for good wandering and looking pathetic. Alfred laughed but happily repeated the poem for Bruce.

He dashed outside as quickly as he could. He got some leaves that had fallen off the trees and fashioned them into some credible, or so he thought, armor. He then began to sigh wistfully, or what he imagined to be quite wistful. _I need an Elfin Grot – I wonder if it would be cheating to use our grotto?_ He decided it wouldn’t and went marching in that direction chanting to himself “The sedge has withered from the lake. No birds sing.” Over and over again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Alfred watched him march away chanting to himself and felt warm. _This is where I belong. For however long that boy needs me_. He didn’t think he would find his job quite so satisfying. He was so lost in his own thoughts and watching the delightfully strange child that he missed when his mistress came up behind him.

“What is he playing today, Alfred? I couldn’t make sense of what he meant when he told me he was going to be the Knight who falls in love with Labaldamsamer?”

Alfred suppressed the laugh that threatened to break free with the garbled way Bruce had said the title of the poem. “Ah, madam. I am afraid I told him a poem yesterday, and he has become quite taken with it: ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci.’”

Martha looked at Alfred and laughed. “I don’t know why I am surprised.”

Bruce unexpectedly shouted, causing them both to look towards him. But he was just reaching the grotto, and that seemed to prompt in him the need to lay down and be served by the invisible fairy woman.

Martha shook her head fondly. “I hope he doesn’t grow up too quickly.”

“I am afraid they always do.”

“Yes. I think you are right, Alfred. I also know Thomas and I aren’t always around. We really appreciate you watching little Bruce. You are very good with him.”

Alfred knew he was probably blushing, but he couldn’t seem to stop the delighted flush spreading across his skin. “He is very easy to get along with.”

Martha hummed noncommittally, “Not all people have found that to be true.” She turned with laughing eyes and looked at Alfred. “You don’t mind watching him?”

“Not at all. It is a joy. One of my favorite parts of this job.”

She seemed to breathe out in relief. “Thank you, Alfred.”

They both stood in the kitchen, looking out the back window at Bruce as he shouted different snatches of what he could remember. It was a nice moment, and one that Alfred didn’t realize would become one of his most treasured memories. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title from this chapter comes from the poem used in it. The whole poem for “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” is here, which is a poem I remember chanting to myself in much the same manner when I was a kid. Those lines just always ran through my brain in this one part in our neighborhood where there was always standing water. There is just something so lyrical about the words:  
> O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,  
> Alone and palely loitering?  
> The sedge has withered from the lake,  
> And no birds sing.
> 
> O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,  
> So haggard and so woe-begone?  
> The squirrel’s granary is full,  
> And the harvest’s done.
> 
> I see a lily on thy brow,  
> With anguish moist and fever-dew,  
> And on thy cheeks a fading rose  
> Fast withereth too.
> 
> I met a lady in the meads,  
> Full beautiful—a faery’s child,  
> Her hair was long, her foot was light,  
> And her eyes were wild.
> 
> I made a garland for her head,  
> And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;  
> She looked at me as she did love,  
> And made sweet moan
> 
> I set her on my pacing steed,  
> And nothing else saw all day long,  
> For sidelong would she bend, and sing  
> A faery’s song.
> 
> She found me roots of relish sweet,  
> And honey wild, and manna-dew,  
> And sure in language strange she said—  
> ‘I love thee true’.
> 
> She took me to her Elfin grot,  
> And there she wept and sighed full sore,  
> And there I shut her wild wild eyes  
> With kisses four.
> 
> And there she lullèd me asleep,  
> And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—  
> The latest dream I ever dreamt  
> On the cold hill side.
> 
> I saw pale kings and princes too,  
> Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;  
> They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci  
> Thee hath in thrall!’
> 
> I saw their starved lips in the gloam,  
> With horrid warning gapèd wide,  
> And I awoke and found me here,  
> On the cold hill’s side.
> 
> And this is why I sojourn here,  
> Alone and palely loitering,  
> Though the sedge is withered from the lake,  
> And no birds sing.


	2. I May Cease to Be

It had only been a few months. Bruce asked to come visit his parents’ graves at least three times a week. Several people had told Alfred that it wasn’t the healthiest way to cope, but he didn’t see much wrong in it. They seemed offended that Thomas and Martha had chosen him to be Bruce’s guardian.

Alfred would stand off to the side and just watch over the small figure in front of the graves. They were on the estate of Wayne Manor, so Bruce really could just come visit them by himself, but since he asked, Alfred thought he must want the company.

Alfred’s mind was still reeling at the revelation that Martha and Thomas had left him in charge of the great estate and their precious child. He knew that both of them didn’t have any other family, but he still couldn’t believe they didn’t have anyone else they trusted. The letter in their will, helped make sense of it at least. Alfred did know their child very well, and he would be the least disruptive. In some ways. _Least disruptive? What does that even mean for a child who had to watch his parents get shot and die right in front of him_. He shook his head. _What a horrible world_.

Bruce finally turned back around. He ran up to Alfred and gave him a quick hug. “I’m going to be back before dark, I promise.” Bruce whispered to him. Before the words even registered, Bruce had dashed away.

 _I suppose some wandering can’t really do him any harm. He might need some time to be alone._ Alfred tried to tell himself it was ok. It was, he knew. But he was unreasonably anxious. Ever since his employers were murdered in the streets, everything felt markedly less safe.

Before, when they visited the graves, Bruce would walk back with Alfred. Now, Alfred felt a strange pull to stand in front of the two gravestones himself. He bowed his head over them. “I know you both would like to be here. There really isn’t anything I can do, but promise that I will take care of your Bruce as best as I can. You know I don’t have any kids, Martha. We talked about how I see Bruce, which I guess is why you left me as his guardian. But I am very worried for him. I don’t think I can be a good enough guardian. Yet, I want you to know that I will try. And no matter what, I will be there for him. I promise to never leave him, and I will watch over Bruce.”

He awkwardly pressed his hand against both headstones, feeling the coolness in the marble. He sighed and turned to walk away. _What a horrendous thing – to take such kind people so arbitrarily and to have made their son watch it happen._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bruce got ready for bed, but tired to take his time about it. He was old enough that he didn’t need to be tucked in, but he kind of missed it. He closed his eyes, thinking about how his mom used to always tuck him in if she was home. He felt the tears gathering in his eyes and tried the breathing practices he read about to help himself calm down.

Nighttime was the worst part of the day for Bruce. He never really liked the dark, and ever since his parents died, he did not like his dreams. They seemed cruel and sent to torment him. He would see their deaths again and again in sharp detail.

Bruce looked at himself in the mirror and shook his head. “Not tonight. It will be ok tonight.”

He got in bed and eventually fell asleep after a great deal of flopping about.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He woke up shaking terribly. _No no no no nonononnonononononono._ He sat up tiredly. _I really can’t sleep._ He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He leaned down, trying not to think about his dream, but finding it impossible to escape.

His parents were shot first. The blood pooling out of their heads. His dad tried to comfort him, but he wanted to scream at his father “IT IS NOT OK. IT IS NOT GOING TO BE OK. You are going to be dead. I will be left alone and both you and mom are gone.” That is how he felt most nights, but Bruce knew he wasn’t really alone. Alfred was there for him. And he loved Alfred.

Yet tonight, his dream had shifted. He had watched his parents die. He had seen the blood. He had felt helpless and useless. And then, before the gunman had run away, Alfred was there. He was hugging Bruce, protecting him.

“You won’t hurt the boy. I won’t let you.” Dream Alfred had shouted at the murder.

He had stared at them both, coldly, his eyes dead. “I never wanted to hurt the boy.” He said in that same empty cadence Bruce heard him say at the police station.

At the time he had wanted to shout, “Maybe you should have. Maybe you should have kept the family together and killed me too.” But Alfred had been there. He had crouched down and pulled Bruce into his arms. And in the arms of Alfred, Bruce hadn’t wanted to be dead.

Yet, here, in his dream, he now watched Dream Alfred get shot. His head exploded out, flecking Bruce with blood and brain matter (just as Bruce had been covered by his parents’ bodies). He had screamed and screamed and screamed. But nothing had changed. Alfred still lay dead at his feet. The gunman had still left him alive.

 _What if he really did die. What if I was dreaming that he has been alive?_ Bruce thought irrationally. He couldn’t take it anymore. He swung himself out of his bed. He crept around the house, just needing to see Alfred again. _I will be able to go to sleep if I can just make sure he is still alive._

Alfred’s room was in a rather out of the way area, which Bruce idly thought seemed pretty silly now that they were the only two people in the house. The thought only increased when he saw the small size of the room. He had never once dared to enter Alfred’s space, and he hoped Alfred wouldn’t hold this against him. _I won’t even wake him up. He won’t even have to know._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

What Bruce wasn’t counting on is that Alfred had been in a war when he was young. He slept uncommonly lightly. Also, it would be fair to say that Alfred’s dreams were not undisturbed by the past either. He woke knowing that someone was looking at him. Blinking his eyes quickly to chase away the haziness of first waking, Alfred made out a small figure in the dark.

“Bruce?” He croaked.

Bruce jumped. “Sorry, Alfred. Sorry. I just . . . I needed to see you. I didn’t mean to wake you. Sorry.” Bruce rushed out in a flurry of words.

Alfred shook his head. “Don’t be sorry, Master Bruce. I don’t mind you waking me. Come on.” He moved over in his bed, making way for Bruce who quickly scrambled to climb into bed with Alfred. “Come, tell me what has woken you so early.”

Bruce shook his head, feeling the tears stream down his eyes. He buried himself in Alfred’s shoulder.

Alfred quickly felt his nightshirt weighted down with tears, and he started to rub Bruce’s back.

“Will. . . Will you tell me a poem, Alfred?” Bruce managed to mumble.

Alfred’s heart twisted inside of him. He hated that his son was having to go through so much pain. He hated this. “Of course, Bruce. Any particular kind you would like to hear?”

“One about death. . . but not sad?” Bruce asked hopefully.

Alfred cocked his head to the side trying to think of one. “I am not sure this works, but I think it is sort of comforting. It was written by a poet who knew he was going to die very young. He had an illness that his brother had died of, so he knew it was coming.” _Oh God, is this the kind of thing I should be telling the boy? I am going to be a terrible guardian_.

Bruce perked up though and was looking Alfred in the eyes now.

“It is sad, as all poems about death are, but I always really liked the ending:

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,

Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,

Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;

When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love—then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.”

Alfred let the words echo around them. Then he turned to Bruce, “those last two lines seem to break the poet free of death. It is coming. It is inescapable, but in that moment, he has eternity.”

Bruce nodded at him, a bit uncertainly. “You aren’t scared of death, Alfred?”

"Well, I wouldn’t say that. I think we are all scared, but I am more scared of leaving you.”

That made Bruce pull away to look at him with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Of course. I never want to leave you, Master Bruce.”

Bruce wrapped his arms around Alfred and melted into the hug. “Please don’t leave me. That’s . . . That’s what I dreamed. That you were there that night too. That you got shot too.”

Alfred closed his eyes in frustration and anger. That selfish murderer who got nothing from shooting the poor couple and traumatizing their child. “No. I didn’t get shot. And I won’t leave you.” He rubbed circles on Bruce’s back and let him slip into sleep. Alfred knew he wouldn’t be going back to sleep, but he didn’t mind sacrificing his own so that Bruce could have some.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

That next night Bruce looked at himself in the mirror. _It is going to be ok. You are going to have nightmares again. But that is ok._ He tried to tell himself. _Alfred is here. He won’t leave you. He would be ok if I needed to go see him_.

Climbing into bed, Bruce decided to leave the light on, hoping that it would help keep the bad dreams at bay. He closed his eyes and still couldn’t get himself to sleep. He opened them again and reached over to a book of poems he found in their library. It was an old book, and he knew he needed to be careful with it. But he opened up to the page he had marked that afternoon. He read the words over to himself and traced their black ink on the page.

 _I will be ok. I will stand alone on that wide shore and think. I hold eternity in my own mind._ He closed his eyes and was greeted by the smiling faces of his mom and dad. They reached down and hugged him, laughing to themselves about a joke he didn’t quite understand. _I will hold this moment always_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love this poem, and I think it is quite comforting. It is Keats’s “When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be.” The full poem is in the story (it is only a sonnet).


	3. Bright Star

Bruce felt anger burn through him. He really hated his school. Or rather he really hated how it seemed to favor money above all else. He watched as Thomas Crawford, whose dad owned a billion-dollar electronics company, flanked by three of his so-called friends, continued to pick on Patrick Smith, whose dad didn’t own anything of note. Bruce had watched several teachers pass by – none of them stopping. The worst thing that Thomas got was a disproving eye.

Bruce was trying to keep a low profile this year because he was hoping to finish the last year here at an accelerated pace, since he already finished the rest of school quicker than most students, and get a head start on his Next Step. He had a secret plan, which he was not going to tell anyone about, including Alfred. And he did not want to do anything to jeopardize that plan. However, he also didn’t want to watch poor Patrick’s defeated face. Squaring his shoulders, Bruce moved towards Thomas, stepping in between him and Patrick with his back to Thomas.

He cut Thomas off mid taunt. “Patrick, weren’t you going to come home with me.”

Patrick looked at Bruce with wide eyes, which was fair. They had never talked before, and Patrick probably didn’t even know Bruce knew his name. Suddenly, Patrick’s eyes grew a little more confident. “Y. . .Yes.” He said, directing his words just as much to Thomas as to Bruce.

“We weren’t done with him yet, Bruce. You can have him after. Come on fair’s fair.”

Only Patrick got to witness how Bruce’s eyes burned. Then he turned around, placid and calm. “I think you are done with him, Thomas.”

“Come on.” Thomas rolled his eyes. “Just because you show up, that doesn’t matter. I don’t really want to fight you. But I will.” His voice turned cold and he grinned cruelly. “It is still four to two. I like those odds.” Thomas laughed and his little posse joined in.

Bruce hadn’t wanted to explain to Alfred that he wanted to take any sort of self-defense classes, so he had only read about it. But now seemed to be like a good time to put into practice all that he had read. He waited for Thomas to make the first move, and then tried to follow what the books had recommended.

It did not go well. But since the fight was between Thomas Crawford and Bruce Wayne, who _personally_ owned a company worth billions of dollars, the teachers were much quicker to step in.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Shame continued to burn through Bruce. _How am I ever going to amount to anything if I can’t even help a poor kid at school?_ He threw down his bag and rushed upstairs, being sure to slam several doors. He was so mad at himself, and he felt so pathetic. _Some hero I am._ He knew Alfred would be distressed upon hearing the doors, which he felt badly about, but he just felt too overcome with frustration.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Alfred raised his head from where he was working on dinner. It was very unlike Bruce to slam any doors, let alone to make a point to slam several. He looked down at his watch and noted that Bruce was about fifteen minutes later than normal. Alfred tried to consider what kinds of things would make Bruce respond in this way. Ultimately, he decided that it had to do something with relationships. _Maybe he has finally fallen in love._ He smiled to himself. _I suppose that would make sense. Especially if they are in his current grade, but maybe they don’t want anything to do with him since he would be so much younger than them._

Alfred felt pretty confident with his analysis. But he still felt at a loss for how to talk to Bruce. He tried to be a good guardian. He had read several books on good parenting and on how to manage children who suffered a trauma and on so many different topics related to guardianship, and they all seemed to agree. It was vital that teenagers have privacy and that you allow them to work through some of their own issues. _No matter how tempting it is to step in and smooth the way before them. This is how they learn._

_Maybe I can just say something at dinner._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dinner proved to be a tense, awkward affair. Bruce was most silent. Alfred felt like a dithering fool and very out of his depth. It didn’t help that Alfred never really felt comfortable eating at the table with Bruce. He knew he was being a bit silly, and they had been eating together for three years, but he still kept feeling uncomfortable. He wondered if Bruce thought about it too.

Bruce had begged Alfred to change his sleeping quarters to a room closer to his own, which he had been happy to do, but then Bruce had wanted him to act differently too in many ways. He wanted to help with the food and the cleaning, and he didn’t want Alfred to be working for him. Alfred understood that. It actually warmed his heart, and together they had worked out a nice sort of compromise. Alfred was more guardian than worker, but he still did enjoy doing all of the things he had been originally hired to do.

Dinner had been a compromise Bruce had begged for. Who would want to eat alone? Fair enough. So, Alfred set the fine dining table for them, and they ate together. But they really didn’t have a lot of conversation. It wasn’t their style. They might exchange a few pleasantries, but that was it. And now, he felt enormous pressure to handle this situation well. This is exactly the kind of thing he should encourage Bruce to talk about. The dinner continued. Alfred knew he was losing his chance. 

Finally, he took a deep breath and decided to plunge into the topic he thought was troubling his young ward.

“You know, I never much cared about girls. Or guys for that matter. Although liking both girls and guys or one or the other or neither is all fine. Erm. Really, what I am trying to say is I never cared about relationships. They just weren’t something I was interested in. But it is more than okay to be interested in them.”

Bruce was just staring at Alfred. He looked shocked.

 _Well. Let him be shocked._ Alfred tried to barrel ahead. “From what I understand, reading what other people want, especially in regards to relationships can be difficult. It is easy to misinterpret what they want, or what you want. It is ok to change your mind. It is. . .” Alfred really felt like the conversation had gotten away from him.

“Master Bruce, you know I look to poetry to help guide my through life, and all I can say is think about Keats’s poem ‘Bright Star.’” Suddenly feeling much better, Alfred got up to get their dessert. When he got back to the table, Bruce was looking at him with clear confusion. “Oh, do you not remember it. Here let me say it for you:

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

Beautiful isn’t it.” Alfred beamed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bruce listened in confused enjoyment as Alfred recited “Bright Star.” Bruce knew most of Keats’s poems by now. He still had his collection of poems by his nightstand, and would read them when he struggled sleeping, which was more often than he would like to admit. He had always liked “Bright Star.” And he always loved hearing Alfred reciting poetry. But he couldn’t for the life of him figure out _why_ Alfred was reciting it.

“It is beautiful, Alfred. But, well, why are you telling me _that_ poem right now?”

Alfred looked surprised. “Well, I am clearly not good on just giving advice regarding relationships. I thought a poem might be more useful.”

Bruce nodded his head, “Oh I understood that. I was just wondering why you were trying to give me relationship advice in the first place?”

“Aren’t you frustrated because it didn’t work out with someone you liked?” Alfred asked in a quiet voice.

Bruce worked hard to swallow his laughter. He would never want Alfred to think he was laughing at him, and he felt sure it would feel that way in this moment.

“Thank you, Alfred.” _He really is so wonderful_. “But no – I am not troubled by any sort of relationship except how to navigate the relationship of how to handle a bully.”

Alfred sat up straighter here. “A bully?”

“Yes. Thomas Crawford to be exact. I tried to help another kid today that he was ganging up on, and I lost quite dreadfully. I have studied all the books in our library on different ways to fight people. I can’t understand why I was so bad.”

“Ah.” Alfred nodded, “In this, practice is very much a necessity for you to work out what the movements really feel like. Don’t worry, Master Bruce, I will sort this for you.”

Bruce smiled at Alfred, not really understanding what he was saying, but so thankful he had such a support.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next day he came home from school, Alfred was proudly holding out a piece of paper to Bruce.

He took it and read a list of dates and times.

“What’s this, Alfred?”

“That is five different styles of fighting on five different nights of each week. We will have you try them all and then you can decide which one you like best and want to pursue. Then we can get a master in to work with you on it.”

Bruce smiled. _This might actually help with my First Step when the time comes._ He looked up at Alfred and was slowly deciding that he needed to make Alfred a part of his plan. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If, as the comics often indicate, Bruce is genius levels of intelligence, I kind of picture him having an accelerated pace through school. Here I am thinking of him as 13-15 finishing up his senior year (depending if we are going with the idea that his parents died when he was 10 or when he was 12 – although some places he is 8).


	4. Drowsy Numbness Pains

Bruce opened his eyes and quickly closed them again. Everything looked too bright. He steeled himself and forced himself to open them again. He could tell he was not on the bed in the cave, which was both a good and a bad sign. Good because that bed was a little too cold to ever really be comfortable, but bad because that means he must have been very out of it to be brought here without remembering.

 _What happened last night?_ He couldn’t quite think back, but this manner of waking was not entirely foreign to him. Typically, he remembered falling into bed and why he was sore all around, but this happened more than he wanted to admit. As Alfred was so keen on reminding him.

He tried to mentally work out what was aching the most. _Do I have broken ribs again? Certainly nothing else is broken, right?_ He heard some machines beeping, which indicated that something more had gone wrong. _Thank God for Alfred’s medical training._ Alfred had actually opted to go to medical school while Bruce had gone off on his ‘backpacking’ adventures to learn more fighting techniques from the best masters. If pressed, Bruce would have to admit that Alfred’s schooling was probably more valuable than his own. That brought a pained smile to his lips, and Bruce tried to re-catalogue his wounds.

 _Come to that, where is Alfred_. Bruce still was blinking his eyes, trying to pull the light into some kind of sense. Things slowly began to crystallize for him. He was in his room. The curtains were drawn back, letting the sunlight stream into the room and spill onto him. _Ah, yes. I was fighting Penguin last night. He had strapped that bomb to that poor_ actual _penguin, and I was trying to defuse it before it went off. Ugh_. He wanted to moan aloud. _Don’t tell me I wasn’t quick enough_.

Then, he realized that he wasn’t just hearing the beeping of medical equipment. He could hear the soft tones of Alfred’s voice. _What is he saying?_ Bruce strained a bit more. He could just about hear.

“Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

To thy high requiem become a sod.”

Bruce did smile at that. _Of course. Keats._ Bruce let himself close his eyes again, slipping back into slumber. Letting the sound of his guardian’s voice wrap him in warmth and love. He let the words wash over him.

“Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Alfred hadn’t slept in quite some time and was trying not to dwell on that. He dutifully readjusted some of the blankets covering Bruce. He wanted him to be as comfortable as possible. He let the last stanza slip from him.

“Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?”

Alfred sighed deeply. _Please wake up Master Bruce. It has been over two days. And I am worried about you. I don’t think it has ever been this bad before. Do you have brain damage? Should I disregard your wishes and take you to a hospital? Call in someone who specializes in this? I need to do more study on brain injuries. I am sure this will come up again._

He abruptly stood up and started to pace. _Is this the kind of guardian I am? Is he going to try to get himself killed every night? Surely, I made a mess of raising him if this is the life he is doomed to lead._ The thoughts started to grow and consume Alfred’s mind, even as he tried to calm down and relax them. _No. I know I can’t control him. And I don’t want to. I want him to be himself, and I want to support whatever that means. But I just wish he could be safe and happy._

Alfred sat back down in the chair and brushed Bruce’s hair gently out of his eyes. He sighed and started saying another poem to him, hoping it would bring them both some comfort.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

About a week and a half later, Bruce was feeling finally ready to patrol the streets again. He knew Alfred felt like he was rushing it, but he felt prepared. He appreciated how Alfred always made his opinion known but didn’t press it.

“Anything else you need, Sir, before you embark on your ill thought-out plan to apprehend another criminal?”

Bruce laughed up at Alfred. “No. Thank you, Alfred. You are as invaluable as ever though. So please, never change.”

Just before Bruce climbed into his Batmobile, he turned to Alfred. “However, just so you know, I like ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ just fine, but I have always rather preferred ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ myself.” He smiled as he caught Alfred’s surprised expression.

“Nothing like those last lines:

‘Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."’ Don’t you.”

Bruce didn’t wait for an answer. He quickly got into his vehicle and went zooming off onto the streets of Gotham.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Alfred watched as Bruce drove off, _Rather too fast really._ He couldn’t’ help smiling, and felt his smile grow even more.

He wanted to shout after Bruce that he was a “cheeky brat.” But he was too far away. The more he thought about it though, the more comforted he found himself being. His little ward had grown into a man. A strange man, sure. It had to be said that normal people did not set up elaborate ruses so they could fight crime. However, he knew Bruce was undoubtedly a good man. He felt a little ashamed of himself, but he felt a strange glow of pride when Bruce recited the poem to him. That was something that was just from himself. Bruce had decided he liked, that it comforted him, and took the time to memorize. _He is my son after all._

Alfred felt his eyes stinging with tears. He wanted his son to be safe and happy, but he also didn’t want his son to be any different than who he was. A very good man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used two of Keats’s odes here. The first is “Ode to a Nightingale:”  
> My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains  
> My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,  
> Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains  
> One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:  
> 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,  
> But being too happy in thine happiness,—  
> That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees  
> In some melodious plot  
> Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,  
> Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
> 
> O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been  
> Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,  
> Tasting of Flora and the country green,  
> Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!  
> O for a beaker full of the warm South,  
> Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,  
> With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,  
> And purple-stained mouth;  
> That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,  
> And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
> 
> Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget  
> What thou among the leaves hast never known,  
> The weariness, the fever, and the fret  
> Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;  
> Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,  
> Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;  
> Where but to think is to be full of sorrow  
> And leaden-eyed despairs,  
> Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,  
> Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
> 
> Away! away! for I will fly to thee,  
> Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,  
> But on the viewless wings of Poesy,  
> Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:  
> Already with thee! tender is the night,  
> And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,  
> Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;  
> But here there is no light,  
> Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown  
> Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
> 
> I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,  
> Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,  
> But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet  
> Wherewith the seasonable month endows  
> The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;  
> White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;  
> Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;  
> And mid-May's eldest child,  
> The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,  
> The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
> 
> Darkling I listen; and, for many a time  
> I have been half in love with easeful Death,  
> Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,  
> To take into the air my quiet breath;  
> Now more than ever seems it rich to die,  
> To cease upon the midnight with no pain,  
> While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad  
> In such an ecstasy!  
> Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—  
> To thy high requiem become a sod.
> 
> Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!  
> No hungry generations tread thee down;  
> The voice I hear this passing night was heard  
> In ancient days by emperor and clown:  
> Perhaps the self-same song that found a path  
> Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,  
> She stood in tears amid the alien corn;  
> The same that oft-times hath  
> Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam  
> Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
> 
> Forlorn! the very word is like a bell  
> To toll me back from thee to my sole self!  
> Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well  
> As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.  
> Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades  
> Past the near meadows, over the still stream,  
> Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep  
> In the next valley-glades:  
> Was it a vision, or a waking dream?  
> Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

**Author's Note:**

> The other is “Ode on a Grecian Urn:”  
> Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,  
> Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,  
> Sylvan historian, who canst thus express  
> A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:  
> What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape  
> Of deities or mortals, or of both,  
> In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?  
> What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?  
> What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?  
> What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
> 
> Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard  
> Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;  
> Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,  
> Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:  
> Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave  
> Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;  
> Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,  
> Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;  
> She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,  
> For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
> 
> Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed  
> Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;  
> And, happy melodist, unwearied,  
> For ever piping songs for ever new;  
> More happy love! more happy, happy love!  
> For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,  
> For ever panting, and for ever young;  
> All breathing human passion far above,  
> That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,  
> A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
> 
> Who are these coming to the sacrifice?  
> To what green altar, O mysterious priest,  
> Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,  
> And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?  
> What little town by river or sea shore,  
> Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,  
> Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?  
> And, little town, thy streets for evermore  
> Will silent be; and not a soul to tell  
> Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
> 
> O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede  
> Of marble men and maidens overwrought,  
> With forest branches and the trodden weed;  
> Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought  
> As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!  
> When old age shall this generation waste,  
> Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe  
> Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,  
> "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all  
> Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."


End file.
